No Consolation
by LuvEwan
Summary: Qui-Gon must employ cruelty to justify an act of love. A vignette.


**No Consolation**

A Vignette by LuvEwan

G

(Disclaimer) Nothing belongs to me.

_Qui-Gon must employ cruelty to justify an act of love._

**O**

I did it for him.

He refuses to see that. Through eyes so heavily bruised, his vision is skewered, and he can only perceive my actions as an insult.

His back is to me, and the lines composing it are stressed, though not to the point of frenzy. He is upset, that is clear, but Obi-Wan doesn't broadcast his emotions. They live well beneath his skin, and few are able to detect the subtle shifts in his mood. For so many, Obi-Wan Kenobi is blank, almost expressionless. He carries things with a tight lip.

I know _that _well. He has not spoken to me since it happened.

He lies close to me, but the tent is small, so in actuality, he is as far away as he can get. Still, I can hear each breath as it slips from him. I can hear him, even as the wind rages beyond our meager shelter.

The air has battled in this war as much as any of us, and it doesn't follow any code. It cuts swollen cheeks and chills aching bones. Since this morning, it has purged tears from otherwise hardened eyes.

It whips through the atmosphere and plunders the trees. But it serves purpose now: a bit of the dense silence is drained away, beneath the tumult. I only wish a gust would come so powerful, it would blow the words from my mind. Because there are words I could say, I would say, that'd mend every severance, and free this place from its stagnation. His muscles would ease, and more importantly, so would his heart.

But I let him believe what he will, and he believes I ordered him to leave the assault because I thought him incapable.

My foolish Padawan. If only he could know, my faith in him is unwavering as stone.

I let my mind drift to the time of his childhood, the beginning of the apprenticeship. How brash and timid he had been, confident and deeply uncertain. And now, beside me, he is a man. A man I watched today, in the thick of heavy fighting and blaster fire. The only person on the rugged face of this Universe that could cause my very soul to clench up.

The perimeter of the combat had been shrinking. Through the swirling grit and debris, I saw him, and for the briefest of moments, forgot all else. It was sheer luck that I was not taken down in that instant. My eyes and existence were centered on him. I watched him deflect the constant barrage of neon bolts, his face bathed in sweat, gaze determined. And I knew I couldn't lose him. I told him to leave.

He was surprised, but hadn't the luxury to indulge it. He instantly screamed back his refusal. He wasn't going to obey me.

So my second attempt was delivered with more force, through the mental avenues that attach us to one another. I forbid him to remain in that core of violence. I forbid him to stay with me.

Ultimately, he could not carry the rebellion through. The outrage and concern were needling our connection; I had to shut it off as he departed from me. I couldn't be distracted any further.

But I had a balm in the knowledge that he was away from the attack.

When it was over, and the aftermath had settled, I came here. He was sitting against the wall of the tent, arms folded around his knees. When he saw me, the relief was evident—as was his irritation.

I relayed to him the outcome of the battle, then, when it became increasingly clear he was cemented in his stubbornness, I told him to go to bed.

He nodded then, and quietly curled up in his robe, turning to the shadows of our haven.

My chest was bound in anguish, but still, I said nothing of my true motives. I watched him huddle among the ghosts, for I knew he had resurrected the memory of our first days. I know he goes back there, sifting through the dust, feeling it sting the wounds again. Compared to others, our history is a short one, but it is rife with the defining moments, the instances that sculpt everything that could ever occur afterward. I didn't want him. I saw him standing there, young and kindling such rare luminosity, and my heart delved deeper in its hiding. I was willing to block him from his rightful path, simply because I feared failure, both his and my own.

I see him now, isolated by his indignation and self-conviction of inadequacy, and I understand how wrong I was.

He is the triumph. And the only failure I claim in his tutelage is that I cannot reveal what has been kept behind the locked door, the honesty that would cure him of the doubt.

He turns to me, and I wonder if he notices my eyes were already on him.

His hair is wilted from the mercilessness of the day; auburn-gold strands cling to his temple. His eyes are pale, but vividly, brightly blue. "Why did you do it?" He asks me, in a quiet husk of a voice.

There is such hurt contained in that inquiry, and I have to swallow the hard lump it raises in my throat. Why did I do it? The answer is plain, a pure strobe in my head, the vitality of my veins. I study his face, the weathered and resilient visage that appears so often in my thoughts. The words tremble at my tongue. I could tell him, and save him the torment.

I could tell him…and I would never again be capable of sending him into war, or a collapsing building, or the thousand other scenes of peril we are duty-bound to enter.

There is a reason I call him apprentice, and do not call him son.

"You were tiring. I couldn't risk you becoming a hole in our defense."

A lie, and it digs into his flesh, steals the last hopeful notion from his graying eyes. "Oh."

A sigh crosses my mouth, though it is more of a scream within me. "Padawan, you cannot dispute that. You were wrung out from the fighting."

"Of course, Master," He responds, without sparing a beat for thought, "I don't dispute it."

"Good." With the greatest reluctance, I look away, and my eyelids shut. "Now go to sleep."

I hear the rustle of his obedience, and wait until I sense his battered spirit succumb to oblivion. Then I gaze at him once more, his face turned off to the side and only partially eased in slumber. The mahogany robe is his defense against the chill of this eternal night. But it doesn't have to be his only protection.

I shrug out of my cloak, and carefully blanket it over him. He exhales softly, shifting in my direction.

He faces me now.

I comfort and punish myself with one final, prolonged gaze, then reach out and gently turn his head away.

It's better this way…it is the only way.

But that is no consolation whatsoever.

**O**


End file.
